


Always a Better Lover than a Fighter

by Keep_Calm_And_Expecto_Patronum



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Bathtubs, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Chamomile, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22381135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keep_Calm_And_Expecto_Patronum/pseuds/Keep_Calm_And_Expecto_Patronum
Summary: Geralt of Rivia, the legendary witcher, is feared by man and monster alike. But what, pray tell, does the infamous Butcher of Blaviken fear most?Dealing with his feelings for Jaskier, apparently.**Written for the Pen15 is Mightier: New Year New Me Challenge**
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 71
Kudos: 868
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette, Pen15 Challenge 10: New Year New Me





	Always a Better Lover than a Fighter

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my friends and betas, [ BrandonStrayne ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandonStrayne/pseuds/BrandonStrayne) and [ OllieMaye ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OllieMaye/pseuds/OllieMaye) for all of your help with this story.

In the depopulated wastes of No Man’s Land, one often ran across danger in various forms: armed men of all stripes, mercenaries, marauders and the like roamed the lawless lands of Velen on the prowl for unlucky travellers or peasants to pillage. Monsters of a more exotic variety were found in abundance in the wetlands and dense, dark forests of Old Velen, the type that caused even mortal beasts such as the savage human to tuck tail and run. Word had spread of one particularly nasty creature of magical origin that was causing havoc in the feudal state. There had been a number of mysterious disappearances and several grisly remains had been happened upon, so gruesome that even in a war-torn state like Velen, shock and fear had spread across the entire kingdom. Creature or creatures unknown were responsible and nobody, not even mercenaries or self-proclaimed heroes, had heeded the call to save the people of Velen from this monstrous beast.

Baron Ardal was thus forced to take it upon himself to contact the only person he knew who stood a chance against the beast. Someone even more dangerous than the monster that they would have to face in the lawless lands of Velen…

* * *

Geralt of Rivia kept his gaze focused on the road ahead. The dirt track was curtained with gnarly trees on either side, so thick that the high afternoon sun was obscured from view. A dense blanket of mist shrouded the hooves of his trusty steed, Roach. As she walked at a slow and steady pace with her chestnut head bowed, it looked as though she were gliding atop a grey cloud. There was an eerie beauty to the place that reminded him of the Isle of Mists, but Geralt was no fool; appearances are often deceptive, and in this part of the Continent, danger lurked around every corner, even in places as peaceful as this one.

Well, it would be peaceful if Jaskier would stop strumming on that bloody lute of his.

Jaskier, the bane of his existence and best friend, strutted by Roach’s side as he plucked the strings of his lute, humming a tune under his breath as he tried to perfect his latest ballad.

 _“If you wish, my love, at my side to repose. My heart would inquire your hands pale and fine, if they’d grasp it gently, to hold like a rose…”_ The strum of the lute was quiet but sweet, much like Jaskier’s singing voice. It was a soothing sound that had a hypnotic quality to it, and for some reason, it always made the heat rise in Geralt’s pale cheeks. _“Or grasp me elsewhere and leave me satisfied!”_

“Jaskier.”

“Hmm?” he replied distractedly, still plucking the strings of his wooden instrument with his dexterous fingers.

“Shut up.”

Jaskier clicked his tongue and strummed his lute again in defiance. “How am I supposed to perfect my next ballad if I can’t practice?”

“These swamps are dangerous; the last thing that we need is for your warbling to draw attention to us.”

It was a half-truth—Geralt didn’t sense any immediate danger but that could change at any moment—but Jaskier’s constant singing was incredibly distracting in ways that he didn’t want to examine too deeply. But his protests fell on deaf ears. If anything, Jaskier seemed emboldened by Geralt’s complaints and he sang even louder this time.

 _“If our bodies could a song compose, my heart would inquire of your hands pale and fine,”_ he crooned, grinning broadly at his scowling companion. _“If they’d grasp it gently, to hold like a_ —oi! What are you playing at?”

Taking advantage of his lightning-fast reflexes, Geralt had leaned over and plucked the lute from Jaskier’s grasp, bringing his raunchy rendition to an abrupt end. Jaskier desperately tried to snatch the instrument back, jumping on the spot and helplessly flailing his arms as he shouted in protest, but with Geralt astride his horse, he had no chance of reaching it. Geralt smirked at Jaskier and continued to hold the lute aloft just out of reach.

“Tell you what. We’re an hour’s ride away from the inn, I’ll give it back to you when we get there if you promise not to talk for the rest of the journey,” he offered.

Jaskier crossed his arms and pouted like a petulant child. “This is no way to treat your friends, Geralt.”

“You’re not my friend,” he replied automatically but Jaskier just snorted.

“No, I’m your _best_ friend,” he preened. “Probably your only friend, with an attitude like that.”

He wasn’t wrong there. Geralt strapped the lute to the back of Roach’s saddle and they continued on their journey in splendid silence...that is until Jaskier started to huff and puff, muttering under his breath while his feet slid on the soft ground that remained invisible from view. Geralt knew that he shouldn’t bother asking, that he should ignore Jaskier’s grousing, but he found that he couldn’t help himself.

“What’s the matter now?” he grumbled.

“Nothing.” Jaskier stumbled forward a little and cursed loudly. “The road’s proving to be a bit of a challenge to navigate when you can’t see the ground—if you can even call this a road. There are tree roots all over the place and I keep catching my feet on them.”

Geralt cast his travel companion a sideways glance and cleared his throat. “You uh...you can ride with me if you’d like. I’m sure Roach won’t mind.”

Jaskier looked up sharply at him with a surprised expression but just as quickly averted his gaze and shook his head. “Thank you, but...I think I’d prefer walking.”

Geralt frowned. “I don’t think a little horsehair is going to ruin your finewear, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not,” Jaskier protested quickly. “It’s just…”

Jaskier fell silent and Geralt understood then what the real problem was. For all of his proclamations that they were best friends, despite all of the time they had spent in each other’s company and through their many adventures, Jaskier had continued to keep Geralt at arm’s length. Just like everyone else did. He understood why, of course; it was for the same reason that he had been summoned by The Baron to do a job that nobody else could: only a monster could kill another monster.

“I see,” he replied evenly. “I suppose it’s the smell of blood on my clothes that you find most off-putting.”

“No, I just prefer walking,” Jaskier replied firmly and this time when he fell silent he remained so. Geralt kept stealing looks at him as they continued their journey, annoyed at himself that he now missed the bard’s voice.

The silence was finally broken again when Jaskier sighed loudly and asked, “How much further to the inn?”

“At your pace? About another half-hour.”

“At least we’re almost at the end of our journey. Speaking of which, you haven’t said much about what this bounty involves. Then again, I don’t suppose you say much about anything, do you?”

Geralt grunted in agreement. “I don’t see the point in talking unless you have something worthwhile to say.”

“Well, it might be worthwhile telling me what we’re doing out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“We’re not in the middle of nowhere, we’re in Velen,” Geralt argued.

“Then we might as well be in the middle of nowhere,” Jaskier muttered.

Geralt let out a weary sigh. “Alright, what do you want to know?”

“Who or what are we after?”

“It’s a what and I will be handling this on my own. You’ll be steering well clear of this one.”

“Oh come on!” Jaskier groaned. “How am I supposed to write about your great deeds if I’m not even there to witness them?”

“You won’t be writing anything if you’re dead,” Geralt pointed out. Jaskier pursed his lips.

“Well, at least we won’t cross paths with any more very sexy but insane witches any time soon,” he mused.

“Yennefer is very fond of you, you know.” Geralt smiled and Jaskier let out a mirthless laugh.

“Yeah? Well, the feeling isn’t mutual. What is your mad mage friend up to these days? Hosting orgies? Hunting dragons?”

“Last I heard she was in Nazair with Istredd researching elf magic.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? That sounds like an awfully tame endeavour for her.”

“I’m sure she’ll make it dangerous somehow. She always does,” Geralt replied, only half-joking.

His on-again/off-again relationship with Yennefer seemed to be permanently off now that she had reunited with her old beau, Istredd. When he had received her letter updating him on her whereabouts, he surprised himself with how well he took the news. He was glad that she had finally found some peace in this life and with someone that seemed worthy of her time and affections. Jaskier pulled Geralt out of his thoughts by letting out another frustrated sigh.

“Well, you can at least tell me what we’re up against. Actually, no! Don’t tell me. I want to try and guess for myself.”

Geralt rolled his eyes but said nothing. The more time Jaskier was distracted trying to figure out what creature he would be fighting, the less time he would have to spend arguing with his friend that he ought to remain at the inn where it was safe until Geralt returned with the beast’s head. Jaskier stroked his smooth chin thoughtfully for a moment, deep in thought.

“Well, the swamps should be a bit of a clue,” he began slowly. “Something dangerous enough that you’re trying to keep me away from it—good luck with that, by the way. Is it...a bloedzuiger?”

“No.”

Jaskier looked relieved. “Good, I’m not particularly fond of them. Is it a cemetaur?”

“No.”

“A coccacidium?”

“No.”

“A mamune?”

Geralt drew him an incredulous look. “You think I’d ride us all the way out here to do battle with a glorified ferret? Even you’d have no trouble felling a mamune.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” Jaskier replied testily.

“Well, you have improved a great deal since I started teaching you the basics of swordsmanship,” he relented, earning him a beaming smile from Jaskier that seemed to warm his insides like spiced mead.

“Well, that’s as close to praise as you’re ever going to get from Geralt of Rivia!” he said brightly before asking with a hopeful note in his voice, “Do you really think that I’ve gotten better?”

Geralt nodded. “Soon you’ll be a better swordsman than a singer.”

“Oh, Geralt…”

“Not that that would be difficult,” he added slyly.

Jaskier playfully slapped him on the thigh and his skin seemed to burn where the bard’s hand had touched him. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him in an affectionate way, certainly not without him paying for the service first. Thankfully, Jaskier was unaware of the effect that he was having on Geralt. Instead, he hummed to himself in contemplation before speaking again.

“Okay, if it’s not a mamune...is it a garkain?”

“No.”

Jaskier grimaced, “It’s not a ghoul, is it?”

“No.”

Jaskier looked visibly relieved. “Oh good. I hate ghouls. It’s not a zeugl we’re after, is it?”

“No.”

“A wyvern?”

“For your sake, fortunately not,” Geralt drew Jaskier a wry smile. “Wyverns have a taste for bards, particularly ones that like to crow as often as you do.”

“Caw caw,” Jaskier replied sarcastically. He sighed and shook his head. “Okay, I give up. What creature are we on the lookout for?”

Geralt hesitated a moment before answering, “A kikimora.”

Jaskier stared blankly back at him. “I’m afraid to say that I’m not familiar with that particular beast.”

Geralt shot him a surprised look. “Really?”

“Well, there aren’t many swamps _or_ monsters in Oxenfurt,” he said as he shrugged. “Anything that I should know before drawing swords with one?”

Geralt huffed out a laugh. “The only thing you’ll be drawing is a bath for me when I get back from killing the damn thing.”

“I hope that was a lame attempt to humour me,” Jaskier warned. “There is no way that I’m leaving your side.”

“Normally, I would let you talk me into bringing you along, but not this time,” said Geralt more gently. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Which is why you need me by your side,” Jaskier argued. “I won’t leave you out there to face that thing on your own. Besides, it would be foolish of me to miss the opportunity to find inspiration for my next ballad!”

Geralt grunted in annoyance at Jaskier’s stubbornness. No matter. They’d get settled in at the tavern for the evening and he’d simply wait for Jaskier to fall asleep before he’d head out and deal with the beast on his own and be back in time for breakfast. Although Jaskier would complain about missing out on the action, he’d rather his friend was miffed at him than dead.

He had been reluctant to take the job at first. He and Jaskier had just arrived at Khaer Morhen for a long-overdue reunion with Vesemir and Leo when the raven appeared at his chamber window that same evening. The scroll had come straight from Baron Arden himself: apparently, several of his soldiers had been ravaged to death in “a most bestial manner” as the letter put it. It came as no surprise to Geralt that The Baron hadn’t bothered to contact anyone when it had been lowly peasants being killed and only took action when his own men became victims of the mysterious beast. It became apparent then that only a Witcher was equipped to handle this problem.

There was no love lost between Geralt and The Baron, so the man must have been desperate to ask for his help. Of course, Geralt wasn’t a missionary and he didn’t take the job out of the goodness of his heart. He only agreed to do it for a fair price, which The Baron seemed all too happy to pay—a few Nobles were included in the letter to cover the cost of travel and Geralt would receive the rest of the reward when he brought the beast’s head to The Baron at Crow’s Perch.

So, after a couple of nights’ rest at the old fortress that he used to call home, he and Jaskier had departed Khaer Morhen and set off for Velen. Without any interruptions, Geralt had calculated that the journey would take about a week. Although they had travelled much farther distances in the past, Velen comprised primarily of dense forests and bogland. It had made the journey slow, cold and unpleasant, especially for Jaskier, who had mentioned on more than one occasion that he regretted his choice of footwear. Geralt, however, had more pressing concerns than Jaskier’s fancy clothes. Namely, whether anyone would be left alive to pay the bounty by the time that they arrived.

Suddenly, Jaskier let out a loud yelp and stumbled forward again. This time, he completely lost his footing and fell flat on his face with a loud splat.

“Urgh, nooooo!” he groaned, pushing himself up onto his knees. Geralt stifled a laugh at the mess Jaskier had managed to get himself into: from head to toe, he was covered in sticky, dark brown mud. Jaskier looked down at himself and scrunched his nose up in displeasure at his grubby appearance. “Oh, bloody hell!”

He tried to brush the clumps of dirt off of his cornflower blue doublet and trousers but it made little difference. His clothes were ruined. Jaskier’s head snapped up towards Geralt who was chuckling to himself and had continued to ride away while he remained knee-deep in mud and gods knows what else.

“Excuse me!” he called out, making no effort to hide the irritation in his voice. “A little help, please!”

Geralt tugged lightly on Roach’s reins and she nickered as she came to a full stop. Geralt turned to face Jaskier and gave him a thorough once-over.

“I’m not sure how you expect me to help, I’m not a launderer,” he drawled.

“Very funny,” Jaskier griped, wiping dollops of mud from his hair and face. “Kick a man when he’s down, why don’t you?”

“You wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d accepted my offer of a ride,” he reminded him.

Jaskier drew him a mutinous look and shook his head, muttering quietly to himself. “Gods, look at the state of me. I look like a bloody farm animal.”

“You sound like one too when you sing,” Geralt teased, delighting at Jaskier’s gasp of indignation.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” he asked hotly.

“There’s been many a morning when I believed that I was being awoken to the sound of a cockerel crowing at the break of dawn. But no, it’s always you singing.”

Jaskier scrambled back to his feet and marched over to Geralt’s side, his body tense with anger.

“And what, pray tell, is the matter with my singing voice?” he demanded.

Geralt gave a careless shrug. “Nothing in principle. Some people prefer the sound of barnyard animals over sweet melodies.”

“I do not crow!” Jaskier fumed.

“You do,” Geralt argued. “You crow in the morning, waking me up. You crow all day wherever we go. You even crow in your sleep. I get no respite from your incessant twittering.”

Jaskier gasped, looking totally outraged now, “Are you accusing me of _snoring?”_

“I’m merely stating the facts.”

“I am trying to write songs of your great deeds, _Geralt._ And I don’t see you complaining when my so-called crowing puts food in our bellies or earns us a warm bed for the night!” he snapped. He sniffed indignantly and marched ahead of Geralt and his steed. “And I do not crow, at any time of day, thank you very much.”

As Jaskier stalked away, he raged to himself about how much he hated this place and how desperately he needed a bath. His whining continued for several more minutes with Geralt slowly following behind when Jaskier suddenly stuttered to a halt and marched off the dirt track and through the thicket of trees out of sight. Geralt frowned and called after him.

“Where are you going?”

“There’s water here!” Jaskier cried back.

Geralt tugged Roach’s rein and she came to an abrupt halt. Swinging his leg over the saddle, he climbed off of his mare with ease and strode through the dense stand of trees after his friend. When he broke through the thicket of trees, he found himself at the edge of a large swamp. Jaskier had waded through the tall grass and was splashing clean water onto his face in an effort to remove some of the mud caked onto his skin and hair. A stab of panic shot through Geralt then and he stepped past the treeline over to the water’s edge.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

“I need to clean the mud off of me,” Jaskier explained, submerging his hands beneath the icy cold surface to scrub the dirt from his hands. “No respectable innkeeper would allow me onto the premises looking like this. He’ll send me to the stables with Roach.”

“Get away from the water, you fool!” said Geralt sharply, wading into the water to grab his idiotic friend. “There’s a monster on the loose and you’re taking a bath in its territory!”

“I’ll only be a moment!” Jaskier argued, drawing him a withering look. “Honestly, we’re surrounded by swamps. What are the chances that the creature you’re looking for just happens to be in this particular swamp and this _particul_ —ARGH, GERALT!”

Suddenly and without warning, something incredibly large burst out from the watery depths of the swamp with a ferocious roar. Jaskier stumbled backwards in fright and landed on his backside with a loud splash, submerged up to his knees in water. A huge, spidery-shaped creature with shiny black skin rose out of the swamp, baring its needle sharp fangs at the helpless bard. The creature’s grey eyes, cloudy like a child’s marble, fixed on Jaskier and dilated. Jaskier stared, frozen in horror as the boned, spiky talon of the beast reared up, ready to strike. As the kikimora thrust its spiked leg downwards towards Jaskier’s face, he instinctively closed his eyes and awaited his doom, but the deadly blow never came. Instead, he flinched at the clang of bone against steel and the sound of Geralt screaming for him to run. Jaskier’s eyes flew open and he looked up to see Geralt had managed to stall the kikimora’s killing strike, but even the Witcher’s muscular arms were beginning to shake as he resisted the power of the creature bearing down on him.

“RUN, YOU FOOL!” he bellowed again before his silver sword flashed through the air and he struck the creature side-on, the blade humming a low, swift tune before a sickening snap and crunch rang out around them. The beast roared in fury as the blade embedded halfway through its heavily armoured chiton shell and it swiped for Geralt’s head in retaliation. Geralt managed to dodge it but some of his fine, flyaway silver hair got caught in the beast’s pincers and were wrenched from his scalp with brute force.

Jaskier scrambled backwards as quickly as he could, slipping and sliding on the boggy ground as he tried to put as much distance between himself and the monster as possible. Several times, Geralt struck the kikimora with his sword, cast Igni to try and repel the beast but it had little effect. It was difficult for him to stand steady on the slippery ground, the silt shifting under his feet and slowing his reactions. The kikimora, of course, had no problem scuttling across the waterlogged ground, its steel-sharp talons piercing deep into the mud to steady itself. With each of the kikimora’s strikes, Geralt struggled to wade through the shallow water and keep himself upright on the uneven ground. The kikimora’s deadly strikes were growing perilously closer and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up. Geralt took a step back to dodge another swipe but the water was much deeper here and he lost his footing. This split-second error in judgement was catastrophic: the kikimora struck him across the midriff, sending him flying through the air. He landed on the muddy banks of the swamp with such force that the air was knocked from his lungs and his sword slid from his grasp, splatting to the ground just out of reach. Before Geralt could gather his senses, the kikimora leapt forward, thrusting one of its razor sharp talons straight through his shoulder and pinning him to the ground. Geralt screamed as searing hot pain shot through his whole body. The air felt like it had been wrenched from his lungs and the strength seemed to seep out of his body from the gaping wound in his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

This was it, then. Felled by a fucking swamp crab just to save the skin of the cowardly bard that irritated him to no end. Geralt sighed and his head thudded against the ground in defeat. Well, at least the beast would be too busy having its fill of Geralt’s innards to pay Jaskier any mind. At least he would get away. He would be safe. Knowing that made Geralt feel at peace with what was about to happen. Not that the last moments of his life would be particularly pleasant. The creature looked down triumphantly at the witcher, a gargling, purring sound rumbling out from its belly as it dragged its dark eyes over its next meal.

“If you’re going to kill me, get on with it already!” Geralt growled defiantly.

The kikimora snarled and bore its needle-sharp fangs wide, intent on finishing the job once and for all. Just as it was about to clamp its jaws around Geralt’s throat, there was a wild, high-pitched scream that sounded somewhere between a battle-cry and sheer terror. Both Geralt and the kikimora turned their heads towards the commotion and were surprised to see Jaskier reappear through the trees, wielding his lute above his head. He brought the lute down on top of the kikimora’s head with such force that the string instrument exploded, sending shards of wood in all directions. The kikimora blinked in surprise but was otherwise uninjured and turned its attention to Jaskier, who looked shocked at what he had just done. Like a giant swatting a troublesome fly, the kikimora struck Jaskier with its leg, sending him soaring through the air. Geralt managed to cast Quen and aim it in Jaskier’s direction a split second before his torso struck the bough of a large, gnarled tree. Geralt couldn’t help but wince as he watched Jaskier’s body bounce off of the tree branch like a child’s ragdoll, his arms and legs twisting in a most unnatural fashion. He made a small ‘oomph’ noise before his body landed with a soft thud on to the ground where he remained quite still.

Witchers, as a rule, aren’t famed for their displays of emotion. Some people believed that his kind were incapable of normal human emotions, but that wasn’t true. They just weren’t governed by their emotions like most humans seemed to be. Geralt, by his very nature, wasn’t quick to anger and he always kept a level head, even under the direst of circumstances—like this one. But when Geralt’s eyes fell upon Jaskier’s body, limp and broken, he felt something entirely unfamiliar rise up inside of him that he couldn’t immediately identify, something that he hadn’t felt since he was a child and his mother had first left him in Vesemir’s care.

The unsettling feeling was quickly replaced with anger and he scrambled blindly for any sort of weapon within reach. His fingers closed around a shard of wood and he shouted at the beast to draw its attention back to him.

“Hey, fuckface!” he snarled.

The kikimora jerked its ugly head towards him and roared. Taking his chance, Geralt thrust the shard of wood up into the gaping mouth of the foul beast. The creature’s eyes widened with surprise as the wooden stake pierced the soft flesh on the roof of its mouth and into its brain. It reared upwards before stumbling back, screeching in pain as blood poured profusely from its mouth, unwittingly freeing Geralt from its grasp in the process. Geralt scrambled for his sword and quickly rose to his feet, looming over the creature as it flailed helplessly, unable to remove the obstruction from its mouth. Geralt drove the sword through the kikimora’s eye, all the way to the hilt. The creature let out a final strangled cry of pain before it shuddered and collapsed to the ground, blood spluttering from the wound in its head. Geralt had to put his boot onto the creature’s head in order to wrench his sword free, wiping the blade clean on his trouser leg before sheathing it again and running to Jaskier’s side.

“Fuck.” Geralt fell to his knees by his friend’s side, the anger quickly subsiding and replaced with the same fear that had gripped him moments before. He cupped Jaskier’s face in his hands and assessed his wounds: he had a deep gash on his cheek and was unconscious, but he was still breathing. Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s shoulders and gave him a rough shake. “Jaskier. Jaskier, are you alright?”

He didn’t immediately respond, but after a few torturous moments, Jaskier screwed up his face in pain and groaned before his eyelids fluttered open. His doe eyes were dazed and his head lolled from side to side, but he still managed to ask, “Did I kill the monster?”

Geralt let out a sigh of relief and leant back on the hinds of his legs. “Sure you did. Killed it with your bare hands.”

Jaskier smiled weakly at him. “Soon I’ll be a better swordsman than you, eh Witcher?”

“What were you thinking?” asked Geralt, his voice thick with worry. “I told you to run.”

“I did. I ran to get my lute.”

Geralt gnashed his teeth in frustration, “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know it wasn’t but I wasn’t going to leave you to die.”

“What you did was reckless and stupid.”

“Well, it saved your life, didn’t it?” Jaskier’s face crumpled. “Why are you so angry at me?”

“I’m not angry at you,” Geralt replied roughly.

“Then why are you shouting at me?”

“Because I'm…” Geralt quickly shut his mouth and bowed his head, taking a few calming breaths to regain his composure. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Despite the pain in his shoulder, Geralt scooped Jaskier into his arms like one would their new bride. He carried him through the thicket of trees back to where Roach stood waiting vigilantly for them at the side of the road where he’d left her. He carefully sat Jaskier on Roach’s saddle and, once he was sure that he wouldn’t fall off, drew his sword and returned to the kikimora’s side. He made quick work cleaving off the monster’s head and securing it to the side of Roach’s saddle. He also took the time to collect what he could of Jaskier’s lute. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to do that since he doubted there was any chance of repairing it, but he stuffed the splinters he had gathered into his travel pouch before mounting Roach again.

It felt strange being the back rider; he’d never allowed anyone else to mount Roach before. But Jaskier was in a bad way and he had to get him to the safety of the tavern as soon as possible.

Geralt wrapped his strong arms around Jaskier's slight shoulders to reach the reins. Kicking off as hard as he could, Roach whinnied and took off down the muddy road as fast as her legs would carry her. They were moving so fast that Jaskier slid backwards on the smooth leather saddle and his body bumped against Geralt’s chest. Geralt pressed his thighs on either side of Jaskier’s bottom to keep him steady; the last thing he needed was for his already-injured friend to come tumbling off of a horse at high speed. Jaskier kept slipping in and out of consciousness, speaking nonsense as his head drooped forward.

“M’sorry I get in your way all the time,” he slurred. “I know I’m just a nuisance; I slow you down and cause you all sorts of trouble.”

“You’re not a nuisance,” Geralt grunted before relenting, “Okay, you are most of the time. But you forget that I’m a witcher: mutagens and magic render me immune to all kinds of ailments. Over the years, I’ve managed to build up a resistance to far worse things than even the most irritating aspects of your personality.”

“You’re so mean to me,” Jaskier replied sleepily. “I...gods, I'm so tired all of a sudden. Fighting a kinkimora really takes it out of you.”

“A kikimora," Geralt corrected him. "And yes, they are quite tiring to fight."

Jaskier’s eyes slid shut and his head flopped to one side. "Mmm, you’re a big meanie but your voice sounds like a warm blanket; it’s coarse like sheep’s wool.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as Jaskier gave a contented sigh and snuggled his head into Geralt’s shoulder. “Mmm, I think I might take a nap."

"Oh no you don’t," Geralt nudged Jaskier’s head on his shoulder in an effort to rouse him. "Jaskier, you need to stay awake.”

"Just a little nap," he pleaded.

“No,” Geralt replied firmly. “You could have a concussion."

“Big meanie…” Jaskier repeated weakly, but heeding Geralt’s advice, he tried to keep his eyes open.

“Just keep talking to me,” Geralt instructed. “We’re almost there.”

“Did you bring my lute?” asked Jaskier hopefully.

“After you smashed it over the kikimora’s head, there wasn’t much of a lute left,” he reminded him. A crestfallen expression washed over Jaskier’s face.

“Oh yes. I forgot about that.”

Time seemed to slow as Geralt rode Roach hard, the galloping of her hooves matching the panicked beats of his heart. It couldn’t have taken them more than ten minutes to arrive at their final destination but finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, the Inn at the Crossroads came into view.

It was a sizeable establishment, several stories high with the enticing sound of music and laughter pouring out of a nearby window. Geralt took care helping Jaskier dismount before wrapping an arm around his waist, and they limped towards the tavern.

“I’m fine, I can walk,” Jaskier insisted, although he made no effort to relinquish his grip from Geralt’s arm.

“We’ll get you a room and a bath,” Geralt promised, his voice lower and more gentle than usual. “But first, you need some food in your belly. If your condition hasn’t worsened after you’ve eaten, then you can rest.”

Jaskier sighed, “Okay.”

Usually, Jaskier would be stubbornly insisting that he doesn’t need any help with anything, but he didn’t bother putting up a fight this time. He sounded bone-tired and looked fit to collapse at any moment. Geralt kicked the front door of the tavern open with his boot and half-carried his companion inside.

It would come as a surprise to no-one that the sudden appearance of two strangers covered in mud, shit and blood was an unwelcome one to the patrons of the Inn at the Crossroads. People glared at them and covered their noses as they limped past. Whispers and insults followed them in their wake as they made their way to the bar where the innkeeper, a burly fellow with a wiry beard the shade of copper, eyed the pair with disdain.

“Can a help ye?” he asked, although the tone of his voice suggested that help would be less than forthcoming. Geralt helped Jaskier slide onto one of the tall bar stools before turning to the innkeeper.

“We need a room,” he replied roughly. “And a bath. A big one. We’ll take two hot meals while we wait.”

The innkeeper snorted. “I’m sorry lads but the rooms here are _very_ expensive. Too expensive for the likes of you, I’d reckon. Perhaps spending an evening in the stables is within a more suitable price range?”

Laughter rang out through the tavern as everyone pointed and jeered at them. Although Jaskier’s face was caked in mud, Geralt saw his ears turn a distinct shade of pink. Geralt might be accustomed to the unwelcome reception wherever he went—in truth, he couldn’t give a shit what anyone thought of him, how he dressed or smelled— but this was a new and wholly unpleasant experience for Jaskier, and the shame was written all over his face. Geralt clenched his jaw but he kept his voice steady.

“Money isn’t an issue,” Geralt assured him. “I’ll be right back with your payment.”

Without further explanation, Geralt turned on his heel and marched out of the inn, returning a minute later with the kikimora’s head clenched in his fist. He slammed the beast’s head on top of the bar, spraying the innkeeper with blood. Several of the patrons screamed and scrambled out of the tavern as quickly as they could. All of the colour had drained from the innkeeper’s face as he stared at the carcass with a mixture of disgust and horror.

“The Baron will pay a hefty bounty for killing the beast,” Geralt explained coolly. “Four hundred Nobles. Is that enough for a room?” The dumbstruck innkeeper nodded vigorously and Geralt drew him a vicious smile. “Excellent. Food. Bath. Room. Now.”

Geralt and Jaskier were ushered to a quiet corner out of sight and smell from the other patrons with two large servings of rabbit stew to keep them busy while they waited for their room and bath to be prepared. Thankfully, Jaskier’s symptoms hadn’t worsened since they had arrived at the inn but he was unusually quiet. Unaccustomed to the silence, Geralt kept glancing up at Jaskier, expecting him to say something, but he just kept his gaze fixed on his plate without eating much.

“You haven’t shut up since we left Khaer Morhen, now you won’t say a damn thing,” he mused.

“I thought you’d be happy for some peace and quiet,” Jaskier huffed. “You’re always complaining about how I talk too much.”

“When you’re not talking, that means something is wrong,” he reasoned.

“Well, I’ve got a splitting headache, for starters…”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“And I lost my lute,” he added. “It was one of a kind.”

“A lute is a piece of wood and string. It’s easy to replace,” Geralt argued. “You, on the other hand, are not so easy to replace.”

Jaskier sighed, “Let’s neither of us pretend that you’re sorry to see the last of my lute. You always hated that as much as you hate me talking.”

Geralt scrutinised Jaskier closely. “No. Something else is bothering you.”

“It’s nothing.”

Geralt clenched his teeth in frustration and leant closer to Jaskier. Anyone else looking on would have thought his body language was menacing but Jaskier didn’t flinch, “I am many things, Bard, but I’m no mind reader. How am I supposed to know what’s wrong if you won’t tell me?”

Finally, Jaskier drew him an accusatory look. “You shouted at me.”

Geralt cocked an eyebrow at him. “I always shout at you.”

“Not like this,” he argued. “You’re always saying how annoying I am and...look, I know that I’m not as strong as you or as good a fighter. I slow you down and I cause you trouble at every turn…”

Geralt wasn’t going to argue with any of those points but he kept his mouth shut and let Jaskier say his piece.

“...but even today when I tried to help, I _still_ couldn’t do anything right. I only managed to make you angry at me,” he said mournfully.

Geralt had the strange and overwhelming compulsion to reach out and hold Jaskier’s hand in that moment, but he pushed that feeling aside and kept his hands cupped firmly around his tankard of mead.

“I’m not angry at you,” he assured him, but Jaskier looked unconvinced.

“You could have fooled me,” he mumbled.

“I’m not! I was…” Geralt sighed heavily and glanced up at the ceiling, unable to meet Jaskier’s eyes. “I was worried about you, alright?”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up with surprise. “You were?”

Geralt shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m not accustomed to talking about my emotions to anyone...or having friends, for that matter.”

In a heartbeat, Jaskier’s expression changed from sorrowful to pleased. “So you finally admit that we’re friends, then?”

“Witchers don’t have friends,” Geralt argued. “Humans and monsters alike fear us.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

Geralt had attempted to sound menacing, hoping that his tone would put Jaskier off from continuing this awkward conversation, but his friend simply laughed and smiled fondly at him.

“I’ll agree that you are much more dangerous than most foul creatures that have crossed our paths. But that’s why I feel safe with you.”

This proclamation took Geralt aback. He was so used to people being afraid of and repulsed by him, yet here was Jaskier, looking at him without fear or hate or disgust. He looked upon him with nothing but affection.

“I thought…” Geralt’s words died on his lips and Jaskier drew him a quizzical look.

“What?” he enquired. As uncomfortable as he felt admitting this, Geralt forced himself to continue.

“Most living creatures tend to avoid me. I understand why that is, so it’s strange to me that you would choose to be in my company. I don’t quite know what to make of that.”

“You really ought to give yourself more credit. Sure, you spend most hours of the day communicating with me in boorish grunts, if at all, but you do have a certain roguish charm about you. And to answer your question, I accompany you on your adventures because I like you.” Jaskier laughed as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“I thought you followed me around to get ideas for your songs?”

“Well...yes, that was my primary motivation when we first met,” Jaskier admitted. He chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment before his expression turned serious. He reached out for Geralt’s hand and took it into his own. “While you make a _wonderful_ muse and remain a constant source of inspiration, I’m by your side because I want to be by your side. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Not really, no.” Geralt’s eyes slid over Jaskier’s face, so open and earnest, to the slender hand which was still holding onto his. It had lingered there longer than necessary, longer than friends really ought to hold hands, but Geralt was equally as reluctant to pull his own hand away. Finally, the Farthing dropped and his eyes flicked back to Jaskier’s face. “Are you flirting with me?”

The bluntness of the question made Jaskier splutter, “I...well...let’s say I am. Is it working?”

“You must have hit your head harder than I thought,” Geralt mused.

“If anything, that bump to the head has knocked some sense into me,” he countered, sounding determined. “Today my life literally flashed before my eyes and you know what I realised? That we ought to live every moment of our short lives as best we can. I mean _really_ live it. Even if it means getting hurt...even if it means being rejected. Otherwise, what’s the point of it all?”

Geralt frowned. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying that if I’ve been misreading the signs you’ve been giving me, then I’m sorry. And if I haven’t, then I’m even more sorry for taking this long to find my courage to finally be honest with you. But I almost died today and, to be perfectly honest, telling you how I feel is only the second most terrifying thing to happen to me in the last hour.”

“How you feel?” Geralt repeated dumbly.

“About you,” Jaskier pressed, giving Geralt’s hand a light squeeze. “I know you’re a man of few words but I’d like to know how you feel...about me.”

Jaskier looked at Geralt with a mixture of apprehension and hope. Geralt was beginning to wonder if he’d bumped his own head during the scuffle with the kikimora because this must be some sort of dream or an extremely pleasant hallucination. But the pain in his shoulder and the warmth of Jaskier’s hand in his own felt quite real. Cautiously, he wet his lips and reached out to Jaskier with his free hand. Jaskier’s eyes widened as Geralt brushed his calloused thumb across his soft cheek before tucking a stray hair behind his ear. When he withdrew his hand, he smiled slyly at his friend.

“You’ve got some entrails in your hair,” he smirked, tossing the clump of monster guts onto the tavern floor. Jaskier’s face fell and his ears turned scarlet.

“Right...thanks.”

“We’d probably be better continuing this discussion in private,” Geralt suggested. Just then, the innkeeper scurried over to their table and informed them that their room was ready. Geralt downed the rest of his mead in two large gulps before slamming the tankard onto the table and rising to his feet. “Bathtime,” he announced. Stepping away from the table he gave Jaskier an expectant look. “Aren’t you coming?”

It took Jaskier a moment to react to Geralt’s words before he jumped to his feet, perhaps a little too eagerly, and followed Geralt and the innkeeper to their room. Although the furnishings in the bedroom were sparse, at least it was warm and dry. The straw bed looked soft and the large wooden tub filled with hot water and scented oils was very enticing indeed. But Geralt wasn’t interested in any of that. The second Jaskier closed the door shut behind him, he turned and was surprised to find Geralt had moved closer. He leant against the door and looked up at him.

“Well...here we are then. Alone at last,” he laughed nervously.

Geralt reached out and gently raised Jaskier’s chin, turning it left and then right. Thankfully, the deep gash on his left cheek had stopped bleeding. “That’ll leave a scar.”

“Shame to ruin such a handsome face,” Jaskier joked.

“Scars are a sign of courage,” said Geralt gently. “They show that when your opponent knocked you down, you had the strength to get back up again.”

“Then you must be very brave,” Jaskier replied sincerely before adding, “And if I remember correctly, I didn’t get back up on my feet. You had to carry me to your horse. But thank you for saying that.”

Geralt’s hand lingered on Jaskier’s smooth jaw, but Jaskier didn’t push him away. He could hear Jaskier’s heart rate speed up considerably, just like his own.

“I have something for the pain, if you want it,” he offered.

Jaskier’s eyes darkened and he bit his plump bottom lip before nodding. Cautiously, Geralt moved closer, ghosting their lips together. Jaskier’s shaky breath hitched before he pressed their lips together more firmly into a slow, teasing kiss. It was soft and comforting in ways that words never would be, but then Geralt had never had a way with words. All his life, he had described his feelings through actions: he’d swing his sword to express his anger and frustration and his indifference to the world which was as cruel and harsh as he was. Nothing about him was soft or kind, but something about Jaskier made him want to be— for him at least, if nobody else.

When Jaskier laced his slender fingers through Geralt’s hair and pulled him closer to deepen the kiss, Geralt’s world seemed to lurch sideways, his head dizzy with desire. How long he had wanted this and hadn’t even dared let himself think that this moment would— _could_ —happen, it didn’t bear thinking about. But it was like Jaskier said: now was the time to live. When Jaskier finally broke the kiss, he pulled away slowly before his eyelids fluttered open again.

“Was that the kind of medicine you were talking about?” he laughed softly. Geralt shook his head.

“No, I just wanted to do that.”

“Do it again.”

This time Geralt kissed him hard. He felt Jaskier’s body loosen and relax against his own, felt his hands slip around his waist and pull him closer until there was no space left between them and he could actually feel the beating of Jaskier’s heart against his chest. Jaskier’s lips were petal-soft and warm like sunlight. The heat from the kiss seemed to fill him from his core, spreading outwards, coursing through his veins and sizzling across the surface of his skin like sweet poison. No, it was like magic. Not the kind of magic that Geralt was accustomed to, the sort that could be brewed in bottles or manipulated by mages for their own means. This felt different somehow, older and more primal.

“The bath’s going to get cold,” Jaskier whispered as they intermittently kissed and groped each other, pulling at their clothes.

“Don’t care,” Geralt murmured, helping Jaskier out of his doublet.

“Your shoulder…” he added half-heartedly

“Don’t care,” Geralt grunted, sucking a line of kisses up Jaskier’s neck and jaw. In truth, the wound had already started to heal—one of the many benefits of being a mutant, he supposed. Geralt made quick work slipping off his armour, but Jaskier was having some trouble removing his silk undershirt; his normally nimble fingers fumbled with the delicate buttons. Growing impatient, Geralt growled and bunched up the front of the shirt in his fists and with one sharp tug, he tore it in two to reveal Jaskier’s lithe chest.

Jaskier gasped and he stared at Geralt in shock. Geralt hesitated then, thinking that he may have taken things a step too far or too fast for the other man. It was equally as likely that Jaskier was angry at him for ruining an expensive shirt; he’d always been very fond of fine clothes. Instead, Jaskier reacted by throwing his arms around Geralt’s neck and kissing him again. Evidently, he wasn’t too bothered about the shirt after all.

Desperate to see all of Jaskier, Geralt pushed him back against the door before dropping to his knees. Jaskier’s eyes widened as Geralt tugged his trousers down to reveal his cock, swollen and pink like his lips. Slowly, he ran his hands up Jaskier’s trembling thighs, taking in the sight of him: the tattered shirt hung limp from his shoulders while his chest rose and fell rapidly. He looked utterly debauched already and Geralt felt another rush of arousal cascade over him when he realised that he was the one responsible for Jaskier’s current state. Determined to show the true depths of his feelings through action, he took a firm grip of Jaskier’s solid member and leant forward to lap up the bead of precum from the tip. Jaskier’s breath caught in his chest and his fingers slid through Geralt’s hair in order to steady himself.

“G-Geralt…” he stammered, but his next words devolved into a deep groan of pleasure as Geralt took more of his length into his mouth. Closing his eyes, Geralt was determined to prove that there was more to him than his jagged, unwelcome exterior. That he could be kind. That he could be gentle—if only for Jaskier. Keeping his lips taut, he dipped his head forward, sucking Jaskier to the root before slowing withdrawing again, dragging his tongue over the length of Jaskier’s cock as he did so. Jaskier panted softly, watching with lustful fascination as Geralt’s lips slid back and forth along his flush shaft.

When Geralt slid his other hand from Jaskier’s thigh to massage his tight balls, he was surprised when Jaskier directed his hand further back towards his hole. Geralt tentatively stroked the sensitive bundle of muscles, but even a slight brush of his index finger over Jaskier’s tight entrance made it clench. Geralt pulled back and was scanning the room for some sort of ointment when his eyes fell on a jar of chamomile lotion that had been left on the nearby table with clean towels. He lathered his fingers in the lotion before turning back to Jaskier.

“Spread your legs further apart,” he instructed and Jaskier eagerly complied.

He began by massaging his index and forefinger in small circles over Jaskier’s entrance, gently tracing the rim. The delectable little noises spilling from Jaskier’s lips sent a shot of pleasure straight to Geralt’s groin and he had to palm the stifling erection through his trousers in order to give himself some relief, lest the night end for him sooner than he’d intended. As he started to push the first slick finger into Jaskier’s entrance, his grip on Geralt’s hair tightened and he sucked his breath through his teeth. Geralt took Jaskier’s cock back into his mouth and suckled the tip, hoping to distract him from the slight sting of the breach. After a few moments, Jaskier’s body relaxed as he adjusted to the sensation. When he rolled his hips, Geralt pushed in a little further, sliding his finger in and out of Jaskier’s tight, fluttering hole in long, smooth strokes.

Jaskier began lightly bucking his hips into Geralt’s mouth, his breaths coming out in short, quick pants as Geralt fingered and sucked him closer to climax. By the time Geralt had worked his way up to using two fingers, Jaskier looked totally wrecked: his eyes were clamped tightly shut as he bounced up and down onto Geralt’s fingers, moaning loudly with each thrust as Geralt continued to suck. Geralt kept his gaze fixed on Jaskier’s face and the sight alone was enough to push him over the edge: his pale skin was flushed in patches of pink, the sounds he was making, the look of sheer pleasure on his face...Geralt wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it together. Mercifully, Jaskier was reaching his limit too as he suddenly gripped Geralt’s shoulder and groaned, “I need you to fuck me now.”

Geralt pulled back and clambered back onto his feet. “On the bed?”

Jaskier shook his head and roughly pushed Geralt’s trousers past his thighs. “Right here. Against the door.”

As Jaskier took a firm grip of Geralt’s shoulders, Geralt slid his hands over Jaskier’s hips and grabbed the firm, round globes of his arse, easily lifting him into the air before pushing his back against the door. Jaskier immediately wrapped his thighs around Geralt’s waist, pulling him closer. Jaskier sank his teeth into Geralt’s uninjured shoulder and let out a low, deep moan as Geralt slid his cock into Jaskier’s slick hole. Geralt groaned as Jaskier’s body clenched around him, sending a surge of pleasure through his cock and up his spine. Geralt responded by withdrawing, almost pulling out entirely before snapping his hips forward again, knocking a grunt out of Jaskier.

“Oh fuck! Yes, keep doing that,” he begged, licking the shell of Geralt’s ear before tugging on the lobe with his teeth.

Geralt quickened his rhythm, snapping his hips back and forth, sharp and quick as he pulled another wanton moan from Jaskier’s lips. As Jaskier’s breaths became deeper and more laborious, Geralt felt the hot twist of pleasure in his gut drawing tight like a bowstring, ready to snap. With one final thrust, Jaskier cried out and Geralt felt his hot seed coat his stomach. When Jaskier threw his head back, Geralt let out a snarl and dragged his teeth up Jaskier’s exposed throat before crushing their lips together in a passionate kiss.

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier moaned. His eyes were glazed with pleasure but his grip on Geralt’s shoulders tightened. “Please, don’t stop.”

As he and Jaskier began to pant and moan in one breath, their bodies arching back and forth against one another, Geralt finally allowed himself to completely lose himself to the pleasure and his head began to spin. He could feel the deep moans of pleasure rumbling deep in his own chest, and as he came, he clung to Jaskier as if his life depended on it. It was intoxicating. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.

* * *

Jaskier sighed contentedly and leaned back against the solid frame of Geralt’s body.

“It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?” he said thoughtfully as he moved his hand through the now lukewarm water of his bath. “I killed my first monster. I almost died…”

“I almost died too,” Geralt reminded him testily as he massaged the soap into Jaskier’s scalp. Jaskier clicked his tongue.

“Yes but you almost die all of the time,” he argued. “This was a new and rather frightful experience for me.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and responded by dumping a pail full of water on top of Jaskier’s head, in part to rinse the soap from his hair but mainly just to shut him up for a second. Jaskier spat the water out of his mouth before continuing.

“Not that the day’s been all bad of course,” he preened, brushing his sodden hair from his eyes. “I finally managed to talk you into bed.”

“I hardly needed convincing,” Geralt mused. He let out a weary sigh and declared, “This was a bad idea.”

Jaskier turned to better see Geralt's stony expression. "What are you talking about?"

"This," Geralt repeated. "Us."

Jaskier groaned and rolled his eyes as though he had been expecting this. "What, did you not enjoy yourself?"

Geralt frowned. "I think it was fairly evident that I did."

"And are you fond of me?"

"Of course I am!" he said hotly.

"Then what exactly is the problem?"

"That _is_ the problem," he argued as though that ought to end the discussion but Jaskier stared blankly back at him.

"I know you don't have a way with words, but you're going to have to explain this to me.”

Geralt sighed and ran his hand over his stubbly face. "When you got hurt, I was afraid."

"Well, that's perfectly natural," Jaskier replied softly. "I was afraid too. Scared out of my wits, if I'm honest. I'm not sure what possessed me to attack the beast…"

Geralt shook his head. "I wasn't afraid for myself..."

"You were afraid for me," Jaskier finished and Geralt nodded. "Because you care about me?” Again, Geralt nodded in reply and Jaskier looked confused. “Okay. Why exactly is caring about me a bad thing?"

Geralt looked evenly at him. "How many witchers do you know who have wives?"

"Well, I only really know you and Vesemir, so I'm not in a position to say one way or another."

"None." Geralt informed him. "Witchers don't have wives, they can't bear children and they don't have friends, and for good reason."

Jaskier cocked an eyebrow at him. "Which is…"

"From the moment of our creation, our lives are fraught with danger," he explained. "Death shadows us wherever we roam. Any of us foolish enough to care for someone only end up hurting or killing them in the end. So, it's better to be alone. I don’t want you to end up hurt or dead, not on my account."

Jaskier sighed, patted him affectionately on the arm and said, "That...is the biggest load of horse shite I've ever heard in my life."

Geralt drew him a sharp look. _"Excuse_ me?"

"You talk about fear as though it's a weakness when it only makes you human."

"I'm not human though, am I?" he shot back.

"Well, you were once," Jaskier argued. "Beneath all the mutant genes and magic and muscles lies a good, caring person. You're not just someone who kills monsters for money. You're so much more than that. You're a good man. You know why I’ve been following you all of these years?"

“I thought we’d already established that you did it for the fame and riches?" Geralt quipped.

"And we also established that the circumstances have changed somewhat,” Jaskier countered. "I’ve more than made a name for myself now. Don't you think it would be much more comfortable and far less dangerous for me if I lounged about court singing songs?"

"Then why don't you?"

Jaskier leaned forward and kissed him briefly. "Why do you think?"

Geralt gave him a searching look. "I don't see how this is going to have a happy ending."

"Who has a happy ending in this life?" he shrugged. "What matters is that we're happy in the here and now."

Geralt stroked Jaskier's cheek. "Sometimes you surprise me."

"In what way?"

"For someone so young, you speak wisdom beyond your years."

Jaskier beamed at him. "You should try listening to me more often, then! I have plenty of thoughts on all sorts of things, particularly where we ought to head next. I heard rumours of a golden dragon in—"

Geralt filled another pail of water and dumped it over Jaskier’s head. Undeterred, he spat the water from his mouth and continued, “—the dragon mountains, funnily enough. There’s a pretty sizable bounty involved for anyone successful in capturing the thing.”

Geralt grunted in annoyance and rolled his eyes. "Is there any way for you to stop talking for more than a few minutes that doesn't involve rendering you unconscious?"

Jaskier drew him a sly grin and dipped his hand beneath the surface of the water. "I have a couple of ideas.”

Geralt huffed out a laugh and captured Jaskier's lips in another passionate kiss. If this was the most effective way to keep Jaskier quiet for a few minutes at a time, he was happy to do this more often.

* * *

After a couple of days of well-earned rest and recuperation (which primarily involved shagging each other senseless), Geralt and Jaskier prepared Roach’s saddle in order to ride on to their next adventure. Once again, Jaskier knew him too well—the lure of seeing a golden dragon proved too much for Geralt to resist. As Jaskier slung his small leather travel bag over his shoulder and gave a cheeky wink and wave to the bemused innkeeper who watched them from the tavern entrance, Geralt cleared his throat to get his lover’s attention.

“I have something for you.” he said. “After I sorted out the bounty with Baron Ardal, I went down to the village and spoke to the carpenter. I asked if there was any way to repair your lute but he said that there was no way of fixing it.”

“I’m not surprised. It was smashed to smithereens,” Jaskier lamented.

“I know.” Geralt pulled a roughly whittled flute from his pocket and pressed it into Jaskier’s palm. “This isn’t a lute, but hopefully it’ll keep you occupied until we find a suitable replacement.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that!” Jaskier scrutinised the flute closely and frowned. “Geralt...did you make this?”

“Yes.”

“When did you even find the time to make it? We’ve been...well, we’ve been busy.”

“Witchers don’t need as much sleep as humans,” he reminded him. “While you were asleep, I enjoyed my few short hours of peace and quiet by making that for you.”

Jaskier turned the instrument over in his hand. “There’s a hidden, natural beauty to its rough exterior.” He looked up and smiled fondly at Geralt. “Just like someone that I know.”

Geralt grunted in response and climbed onto Roach’s saddle. He looked expectantly at Jaskier. “Aren’t you getting on?”

Jaskier beamed at him, pocketed his new instrument and clambered onto the back of the horse, his arms wrapped tightly around Geralt’s waist. He smacked a kiss to Geralt’s cheek and pressed his face against his shoulder.

“Thank you for the flute. It’s beautiful.”

Geralt smiled, grabbed Jaskier’s hand and gave it an affectionate kiss. “My pleasure.”

Geralt kicked off hard and Roach took off down the road, leaving the Inn at the Crossroads far behind them and headed towards a future unknown. It was just like Jaskier said: Who has a happy ending in this life? What matters is that we're happy in the here and now. And for the first time in his life, Geralt of Rivia was truly happy. With at least a two-week journey ahead of them to the mountains beyond Barefield, Geralt was sure that he’d hear plenty of the shrill wind instrument on the way, but for now, Jaskier seemed content to travel in silence. Geralt knew that the silence wouldn’t last but that didn’t bother him either. He was content to have Jaskier pressed close against him. Wherever the road may take them, at least they would be together.

THE END


End file.
